


Impossible

by thesignsofserbia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, No Watson Baby, Not season/series 4 compliant, Pining Sherlock, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sherlock is excruciatingly human, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: He believed it right up to the very last second.And he was wrong.





	Impossible

 

The flat is dark and cold, despite the fact that it is only late afternoon. Sherlock didn’t turn the heating on; but it’s not that he forgot to exactly, he’s just that apathetic about getting up. Wearing the coat is less effort, and he thinks it adds quite nicely to the mood.

Black clouds hang over the streets of London. The damp is impossible to avoid; with strong winds that cut through even the thickest layers of clothing. Disappointingly, it never makes it to a proper storm, but it’s been raining relentlessly for three days; just enough to leave everyone in the city drenched and utterly miserable.

It suits him down to the ground.

The day of the wedding was bathed in glorious sunshine; even the sky celebrating the holy matrimony. The ceremony was perfect. And it was such a beautiful day that even a murder at the reception couldn’t ruin it. James Sholto survived in the end; which saves the dying part for him.

He’s sitting on the floor; back against the coffee table, staring at the chair he had long ago come to think of as John’s. It’s his chair now, he supposes, though technically it always has been.

Sherlock never liked it, with its uneven cushions and broken spring; he’d only brought it with him from that sad little flat on Montague Street for a lack of better options. He couldn’t be seen living in an empty flat, now could he?

But for John, it was love at first sight; settling into it instantly as if he belonged. He staked his claim, and that was that; it became his by silent agreement.

Sitting across from John in that chair was as natural as breathing.

It was much the same with the flat; it ceased to be Sherlock’s flat the moment he stepped through the door, instead quickly becoming their home. It’s not John’s home anymore, though of course that has been true for several months; it’s been years since John actually _lived_ here.

Even so; he left his mark, and he will always have a place here. Except this time, despite the fact John never moved back in to begin with; the separation has a sense of true finality.

Because John has another home now; a house in the suburbs, with a very big mortgage to boot. A bog-standard townhouse, indistinguishable from those around it, somewhere that clings to only the most tenuous claim to being part of London Proper.

John’s _marital_ home.

Sherlock went there once, partially out of curiosity, and partly because there’s only so many times you can dodge an invitation from your best friend before they call bullshit. As soon as he’d stepped over the threshold, he’d known it was a mistake.

Perched uncomfortably on Mary’s overstuffed sofa, making awkward small talk and surveying the interior; he scoured the room, unable to detect even the barest trace of John’s influence. Neat and homey, with floral curtains and immaculately hoovered floors. Picturesque domestic bliss.

Not a coffee stain or acid burn in sight.

The whole place reeks of Mary; Mary’s tastes, Mary’s furniture, Mary’s _smell_. With nothing of John to counteract it; no touch of the doctor, the soldier, the civilian who tackles criminals in the street. Just a sparse scattering of possessions. John lives there, but he hasn’t made it _his_.

Sherlock finds himself fighting the vicious urge to reduce the whole place to cinders. And subsequently misses half a conversation fantasising about it. A tempting thought, but this abomination is not worth the consequences, and he suspects burning his best friend’s house to the ground might be considered just a little impolite.

And he’s doing very well so far, it would be a shame to ruin it. Despite all that, briefly; he does consider it.

The sickening cliché of the happy couple. Just the thought of John in that house fills him with revulsion. It is just so contrary to everything he knows John to be, and Sherlock cannot understand how John could possibly _want_ this nightmare.

He was desperate for a smoke. It was all he could do to smile tightly and nod in the right places; biting his tongue and counting the seconds until he could make his excuses to leave. It took hours to get rid of the smell.

Mary natters away ceaselessly. John talks during the visit, but he sounds like a host. He knows damn well Sherlock is uncomfortable, and says less and less with every smile Sherlock has to force.

Sherlock pokes at bland, over cooked potatoes; shifting food around his plate until it looks like he’s eaten. Pudding is pear crumble, and John’s eyebrows shoot up; watching Sherlock’s face carefully as the plate is set in front of him. Sherlock has claimed on more than one occasion to be allergic, and he’ll happily use the excuse again. His smile is sickly sweet.

There’s nothing that Sherlock Holmes hates more on this planet, than _pears_ , except possibly this house. It’s the one food Sherlock will not, under any circumstances, voluntarily eat, see, or smell.

His hatred for them is infamous; he’s thrown one at a client’s head before, a story John likes to tell often. So Sherlock would be _very_ interested to find out if Mary knew this when she baked it; because John’s face says she almost certainly did.

John tries hard to make him feel welcome, to include him in his life.

They make eye contact across the table, and both know it won’t happen.

Sherlock doubts he’ll be visiting again anytime soon. He will not watch John settle down and blend into suburban life. He refuses to think of him that way; just another faceless drone, swallowed by normalcy. Normalcy and pears. No, he decides, boring holes in the upholstery; he will not be going back there.

The chair can hold no other association for him now; it is not his, and it will never be anyone else’s. No one could ever take that place. Sherlock would rather sleep on the streets for the rest of his life than allow another to live under this roof. Sherlock Holmes will never have another flatmate.

He can’t bring himself to throw it out.

~

The emptiness in the wake of John’s departure has left the building bitter and stagnated, and in the very centre; a 5’8” wound that just will not heal. It leaves him too much time alone with his thoughts, the gaping silence stretching out. He can’t seem to find a way to end it.

He’s uncertain of what this means for them, and the uncertainty has left him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.  He’s been doing his best to fix what he’d broken, to work towards rebuilding the trust they once had. The friendship is still fragile, but progress _has_ been made.

It is clear now that they will never get back to what they were. John’s marriage is the earthquake that triggers the landslide, and Sherlock is already buried neck deep. It doesn’t matter that he’s trying, or how much time he gives it; what’s done is done. Some things simply cannot be fixed. And fixing can be difficult when immovable objects obscure the path. A vow for example.

Honestly, it was naïve to believe John would want to reclaim this. Because he did. He believed it right to the very last second. John would come around; and all would be forgiven. John would come to his senses and the wedding would be cancelled. Sherlock drilled that promise into his skull for two years; convinced himself that if he could just _survive_ , then everything would be okay.

Sherlock underestimated Mary’s significance, never imagined that anything would change, that John would want anything, _anyone_ else.

Because Sherlock never could.

That foolishness is what led him here; sitting on the floor amongst the ruins of their life, staring at walls, heart still unable to accept that John will not be coming home. He supposes it’s a taste of his own medicine, and Sherlock did always have a tendency to poison himself.

Animals pine for their owners when they go away. Unable to understand that holidays don’t last forever. They have been abandoned, with no comprehension as to why. Even a cat, aloof, and above it all; sometimes they refuse to eat.

This is what he has been reduced to. The comparison disgusts him; Sherlock Holmes was never meant to anyone’s _pet_.

He’s done a lot of things to get to where he is; made impossible choices. There were casualties, and there were consequences; people suffered, and people died. For this.

Only now, without John, home is incomplete. And without that guidance and distraction, Sherlock’s focus has become scattered, straying towards topics on which he should not dwell.

Alone with the floor; he hates what he has done to himself.

He was a great man once; unsurpassed in his profession, his time was his own. He worked only when he felt like it, free to dedicate as much time to the study of his choice as he damn well pleased.

For hours Sherlock cradled his instrument against his shoulder; he played until he fell to his knees. He’d leave for a walk, and not return for days, regularly beat and _get_ beaten half to death in underground boxing rings. Smoking, shooting the walls, or facilitating the most intricate chemical equation he could perform; anything, at any hour.

People were wary of Sherlock Holmes, most avoided him, some loathed him, and some wouldn’t even spit on his corpse, but they all _respected_ him; because he was _brilliant_.

Sherlock liked being untouchable. His chemistry, his work, and his music; they were all that mattered. Danger is everywhere in this city, but of all the criminals he fought; Sherlock was the most dangerous of them all. You can’t take down a man to whom nothing is sacred.

Sherlock’s mind is at war with itself.

His fury at this loss of identity makes him want to trash the place, to snap; go completely and irreversibly off the rails. Burn London down in his rage, remind everyone who he _really_ is; punishing himself for throwing it away, and reclaiming it in the process.

He seriously considers it.

Throwing away the standards he fought his entire life to instil; Sherlock is _disgusted_ with himself for it. He is weak.

But Sherlock’s heart; it does not repent.

Tamed in London. Degraded and abused in Serbia. Humiliation and irrelevance upon return. Sherlock has watched everything he stood for _burn_. He will never forgive himself for letting that happen, but neither would he ever take it back. And he hates himself for it.

~

Sherlock has so many regrets, and more ghosts than he can name.

~

To pass the time, he observes the rest of the flat, tired eyes glazing over the familiar space. He tries to see it objectively, like for the first time. He looks past his own possessions, putting aside the flood of memories and preconceived notions he has of the place, and looks deeper.

There is a small stain on the ceiling above the fireplace, slightly yellowed over time. It’s faint, but with that angle and distribution, the spray can only be champagne; inexpertly opened, many years ago. The previous occupants; or more likely the ones before. _They’d_ certainly never had anything much worth celebrating, or…not that warranted champagne.

The mantle is chipped; a difficult feat. The Victorians made things sturdy, and even Sherlock has been unable to replicate it, though not for lack of trying. It speaks of anger, of violence in the home. He suspects a fire poker, though it’s difficult to say.

In the upstairs room lived a heavy smoker. They sat on their mattress at night and lit cigarette after cigarette in the dark. Sherlock sympathises entirely. The smell is gone of course, but the painter was lazy. He’s left some staining over the bed.

Sherlock sits cross-legged on the bare mattress with his royal ashtray; fresh tobacco repeating the cycle, and tells himself it’s in the name of observation. It really is a horrible little room.

Whoever renovated the bathroom couldn’t really afford to. The tiles are unreasonably cheap, and they’ve done a shoddy job there too. The colour is hideous, a cost saving measure, and (inexplicably), they’re not even straight.

He suspects someone died in this bathroom, though he’s never been quite sure why. A suicide? A stabbing? An overdose? Perhaps he’s just thinking of Montague Street. The lino used to be tiles too, but something terrible happened; probably in the 70s. It’s a mess under there, he knows it. Mrs Hudson forbade him from ripping it up.

But he’s looking for disaster there too. There’s no evidence to support it. Still he sees it everywhere, imaginary darkness lingering in the air.

He looks at the building, and imagines how it came to be this way, how its identity changed. Traces people leave without knowing it. He can read the shapes and secrets of their lives, years after they’ve left them behind; the cracks they make in the world.

Telling of their joy, their heartbreak, their devastation; he can plot it all out in his head. These markers tell him exactly where furniture was placed, moved, what events brought about the idiosyncrasies of the walls.

It’s all speculation, time and numerous occupants obscuring data, painting over the marks of those before him. But in the lines and scrapes; he imagines he can read how full their lives were, good or bad, and resents the juxtaposition to the present.

Patterns in seemingly unrelated things, he can’t help but see them, can’t turn it off, mind constantly processing. Sometimes he loathes it. Sometimes he envies the lives of normal people; their peaceful oblivion. Others take simplicity for granted.

Very occasionally, in his uglier moments; he thinks perhaps, if given the chance, he would give it all up. Because what life is this, really? Monsters hunting monsters in the dark. Oh yes, his life is so much _more_ than theirs, but every so often; it seems just as less.

The flat is not the only thing that has bittered over time.

~

He's even in the dust.

There’s nowhere left in Sherlock’s home John Watson doesn’t haunt; traces of his DNA mark every object he has touched. Sherlock could dust the entire house for prints and there would be one of John’s on every surface. Over time; they too will be gone.

It’s all he has left; that, an odd sock, and John’s RAMC mug.

Sherlock was surprised to find it; the possessions of a man who has few are of intrinsic value. At one point, it certainly was. John never took much with him; everything he owned fitting neatly into his army duffle and two moving boxes; practical, minimalistic. And yet he’d left it behind, as if it had served his purpose, as if he no longer needed it.

His care for it, though seemingly devoted, became fickle with time.

John’s mug is not the only item he has discarded of late.

~

Life never works out how we expect it to.

Sherlock was happy, he was _optimistic_. For once, life was working on his side, he’d waited so long for this and finally he could see the path ahead leaning in the right direction. What he saw there had him convinced that everything would culminate exactly as he envisioned it would. Now his pride is drowning in the utter _embarrassment_ of it all.

He was a fool. Because his brother is right; it’s textbook. All his assumptions, his careful observations, his interpretation of events, everything he thought to be true; Sherlock drew all the wrong conclusions.

Everything he’d hoped for, the future he’d believed to be inevitable; he was mistaken.

He doesn’t understand how he could have read it so _wrong,_ how he could have thought it to be anything but _impossible_. Sherlock ignored every blatant warning sign, he dared to hope; and now the humiliation is crippling him.

Because everyone _knows_. It’s impossible to hide, any idiot could draw the line from A to B. His friends, his colleagues, his enemies; all of them. The entire city can see him for the fool he is. The fall, the ceremony, the post-wedding relapse, _quotes from his speech_ ; all spread across the tabloids. Sherlock’s pain is _public knowledge_.

His flatmate, his partner, his best friend; a married man.

 _Unrequited_.

~

Mary shoots Sherlock in the chest. And everything is fine.

Happy families.

~

Sherlock’s attempted suicide is swept away with the focus on the latest impending disaster.

It’s just another day.

~

Moriarty is back. Or rather, he’s not. But the hysteria around the stunt is the final proof, in case it was even in question at this point; Sherlock’s identity is long dead.

There’s not being taken seriously, and then there’s him. On a flight to an exile that will certainly mean an agonising death; Sherlock takes a concoction enough to kill 4 men, and means to die alone and frightened thirty thousand feet from solid ground.

He is given three injections of naloxone, a stomach pump, and a lecture.

Except it wasn’t a stunt. He intended to close his eyes and never wake up. But it’s too late, he’s cried wolf. His suicide is old news, a one trick pony; his inability to just _die_.

Sherlock tried to _kill_ _himself_ , and no one blinks an eye.

~

He’s not entirely sure how it happens, but Mary joins the team. Sherlock never approved it, but she invites herself all the same.

Cases are never the same when she’s there. Her skillset is undeniably good, and she’s certainly more observant than John, as she likes to point out on a daily basis. He wonders if it’s that she doesn’t notice it fall short, or simply just doesn’t care.

Not once is John’s laugh genuine.

Sherlock doesn’t laugh at all.

Abilities aside; she’s the opposite of helpful. Three is too many to be stealthy, and while her mouth may claim to be on Sherlock’s level; she never fails to disappoint. They may both be killers, but that’s _all_ she knows to be. At least his ego stems from fact.

It irritates him to no end, to the point where he deliberately won’t mention a case, just to get rid of her; even if it means sacrificing John at his side. Tensions are high with the police too. Having a partner they understand, but an entourage of Sherlock’s friends taking part in a criminal investigation? Unacceptable.

Sherlock was a respected professional once.

It’s a fucking joke.

The communication is all wrong, and it has Sherlock off his game. Wires are crossed, and mistakes made. John hates it too, but he never says a word, at least not in front of Sherlock. She actually has the _audacity_ to suggest working cases when John is unavailable, and that’s just one fucking step too far. He very nearly blows up in her face.

~

And then she goes and gets herself killed.

It’s not even a good death; it’s a dramatic leap, right into the path of a bullet. Some B grade shock tactic of which even Hollywood would be ashamed. Sherlock almost wishes _he’d_ been shot so he wouldn’t have to stand witness.

It’s not even clear why she’d been there in the first place.

~

As John walks away; naturally he follows. But Sherlock is not welcome.

John is leaving again; and Sherlock says absolutely nothing to stop him. Just one word;

“Please.”

_Not this. Not again._

It’s all he can get out, can’t even think of a following sentence. Not much else is said, but subtext speaks far louder than words.

John’s forgiveness he fought for with all his heart. It didn’t matter that he was trying then, and it doesn’t matter now. John won’t hear it.

It’s going to be like before; he knows it. Worse even. When Sherlock came back from the dead, he did it as a broken man. Hope is what saved him. Even when John Watson ripped it from his chest, it was never going to be forever. John gave it back in time. Sherlock thought everything would be alright in the end.

Now, Mary Watson is dead. And now; it’s _John_ who wouldn’t spit on his corpse.

How did everything go so drastically wrong?

John is leaving. And it doesn’t make sense.

John forgave Mary for killing Sherlock. Correction; for _wilfully_ _murdering_ Sherlock. But now Mary is dead. Actually dead. And John’s capacity for forgiveness is wearing thin.

Mary meant for him to die when she chose to pull that trigger, and no, he hasn’t ever forgiven her for that. He might even hate her, but that’s as far as it goes. His hand did not hold that gun; he never felt the squeeze of the trigger that ended her life.

He’d been frozen to the spot, she just reacted fastest. Vivian was aiming at him; that bullet wasn’t ever meant for her. Sherlock never asked Mary to die for him.

It’s quite possibly her cruellest move yet.

Sherlock wanted her gone, but he did not wish her dead. This isn't post humus revenge. An eye for an eye. Is that what John believes? That Sherlock has been playing nice with Mary for months, biding his time until he can leave her for dead the way she did him?

With the grief twisting his mind, it’s only too possible.

Sherlock knows he is not responsible for Mary’s death, but his actions were a significant contributor. He antagonised Vivian, was so caught up in the victory that he didn't think to expect the gun. Mary did. She tried to warn him, urging him to shut up. If he had _just_ _shut_ _up_ , stopped talking for one _second_ , perhaps none of this would have happened. But he just couldn’t let it go.

And now here they are. Sherlock didn't kill her, didn't mean for her to die. It was her choice, but, in many ways; it is still his fault.

Death is not something you can take back. Not in the real world.

Now he sits alone, eyes fixed on the mantle. Whoever made that chip was not stronger than him, they were fuelled by emotion. He finds himself dreading every second to come. But they will come. Time won’t stop for him. He can’t go back to that; walking around, guilt lining his every step, wondering if he’s ever going to see John again.

Being banished from London nearly killed him twice. Being banished by John almost makes him wish it had.

~

John doesn’t hate Sherlock, but he still can’t look at him without seeing Mary’s face. He blames him, despite knowing it wasn’t his fault. It doesn’t make sense, but it is what it is.

If there’s one thing that makes everything that much fucking worse, it’s the fact that before Mary died; John was restless. The dream of a wife and kids fell short in every respect. Three months into the marriage, and already his feet were as cold as socks in the snow.

In a way, Sherlock took that dream from John. Stole it and stamped it to death underfoot.

Because who the _hell_ wants to get married and settle down when they could be out fighting crime with Sherlock Holmes? When Sherlock came back; he ruined _everything_. Sherlock presented him with a choice he didn’t want. The life he’d ached for, suddenly there for the taking, and John was angry, because he didn’t want to want it, but deep down he knew; there’s no competing.

Sherlock _always_ wins; he wins before the starting gun ever fires. And this time; John wasn’t having it.

Anger and abandonment brought out the need to rebel. So, he went through with it; determined to shove his independence right down Sherlock’s lying throat.

_I don’t need you._

Subconsciously, getting married was a way to hurt him. A way to make Sherlock feel as betrayed and lonely as he had for two fucking years. To have something Sherlock could never achieve.

Yeah. It’s fucking despicable on basically all fronts. But John buried himself in so many layers of denial, that he convinced himself it was eternal love, and for the first few months at least, he really thought they could make it work.

When really, everything in his life eventually leads back to the same place. It’s hard to admit, even to himself, but in the end, the disgusting truth, is that he never truly spoke those vows for Mary; he said them for someone else, completely out of spite. They were never really _his_ vows at all.

He buries his wife. When just three weeks before he’d been standing on the steps of a bloody law firm, too much of a coward to file for divorce.

He’s devastated that she’s gone. Mary saved his life, a cocoon of warmth and kindness that somehow pulled him back from the brink. But it’s only one half of her he’s grieving. Love fades, but John’s love evaporated the second he saw, that the _other_ half of Mary? It was a _monster_.

The exact same monster Sherlock always claimed to be, but never was.

It’s traditional, and in this case idiotic; but John’s idea of marriage is commitment. He went back to her clinging to the desperate hope, that the other side of her was real, that they could rebuild.

That hope was the biggest lie of all; because it wasn’t even _John’s_.

Sherlock has tenacity. He’s fucking Derren Brown on coke. God knows why, but preserving John’s marriage to a psychopath became Sherlock’s only mission in life. Two months into recovery from a bullet wound, and he had John trying for forgiveness. Even while John swore blind he’d rather cut out his own liver than lie beside her in that bed.

John isn’t _actually_ an idiot. Even if Mary honestly _did_ like Sherlock Holmes; he was never meant to survive that shot.

In her last moments, he wonders if maybe; she was trying to atone.

Because she knew exactly what she was doing. Dying for Sherlock is the same as if she’d jumped in front of John, because she knew he couldn’t survive burying him twice. Saviour by proxy.

John feels guilty that Mary died for him, because the horrible truth is; he didn’t _want_ her _in the first place._

And maybe that was even the point; one last attempt to tear them apart, to shift the blame right back onto Sherlock’s shoulders. Her final revenge.

Either way; it’s working.

He wonders, if it were the other way around, and Vivian aimed her bullet at John’s chest; would she have taken it then? Would the warm half save John’s life because she loved him; or would the cold side just get too much satisfaction from Sherlock’s grief?

Anyone else would be horrified that he’s even asking the question of motive. His own wife is dead, and he’s trying to figure out if she meant it to be cruel or kind. To this day, he still doesn’t know which part was real.

Everyone cries at Mary’s funeral; everyone except Sherlock and John.

One of the bridesmaids reads a eulogy about a beautiful person; a sweet nurse with a heart of gold. They mourn only half the woman they knew, console him for such a terrible loss.

And Sherlock just stands there.

He pauses respectfully, drops a handful of dirt on her coffin, and watches as they lower her body into the earth. He gives nothing away. Even those closest to him can’t tell the truth for all his lies. He spins a merry-go-round of falsehoods, and you believe them to the ground. He’s so good you never even know you’re dizzy.

Sometimes John twirls along with the rest of them, but very occasionally _;_ his world stands still, and he understands what others don’t. Pretending to like Mary Morstan, even in the _slightest_ , was up there with the biggest lies Sherlock ever told. And John has known it all along.

From the start he couldn’t stand her, but he played nice for John, and John hates him for it now. Her body lies deep beneath the ground, and, on a personal level; Sherlock probably couldn’t give less of a fuck that she’s gone, not even if he tried.

Through the burial and all the flowers, Sherlock never says a word, but doesn’t move three feet from at John’s side. A sentinel; he stands stiff amidst the mourning, and not once does he stop to think of her. Sherlock doesn’t care to respect the dead, he’s only here to guard the living.

John thinks about the half he loved, and wants to kick him dead.

~

In the midst of a case, Greg asks him how he’s coping. At first, Sherlock thinks the question is directed to John. No one _ever_ asks how Sherlock is. Then he remembers John is not standing next to him.

“I mean, I know I barely knew her, but I can’t believe she’s gone. I’m sorry Sherlock, I know you guys were close.”

By proximity maybe.

“Yes. Thank you.” What else can he say? It’s not like he could tell him the truth.

Because Sherlock is not sorry at all.

There’s something nervous in his voice, like he’s looking for forgiveness.

When someone dies, all the little doubts and misdemeanours have a tendency of crawling out from beneath the woodwork. Lestrade is clearly feeling some sort of misplaced guilt for Mary; and Sherlock knows damn well what for.

At the altar, John’s mouth was moving, but Sherlock wasn’t fooled; he heard Lestrade’s voice loud and clear. John Watson didn’t even write his own wedding vows.

Perhaps he thinks John will resent him for this. Or perhaps it’s just the deeply questionable morality of the lie. Sherlock thinks Lestrade did a rather good job; John could never have been so eloquent. He did Mary a favour.

“You know you can talk to me anytime. John too.”

“Of course,” a pause, “Where’s the body?”

Lestrade sighs, and motions him to follow.

~

Yet again, Molly Hooper is asked to go above and beyond.

Sherlock goes to her because he knows how John’s mind works. John won’t speak to him directly, but if he has a message for Sherlock; this is where he’ll find it. The moment he steps foot in the mortuary, his theory is confirmed. Her face crumples, Molly has been dreading this; she knows why he’s come, and wishes he hadn’t, because she doesn’t want to say it.

His spine stays as straight as it was before her mouth moved, and his expression just as open, but the last thread of hope has snapped. He can never unhear it, and now he has, the world doesn’t look the same.

_Anyone but you._

The hurt builds in his chest.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock.”

He blinks at her, and blinks again to clear the water from his vision.

He feels for Molly. Again and again he puts her in these impossible situations, and it’s not fair. She watched her friends hurting for two years, knowing she could ease all that pain with just one sentence. And she never said a word. Because Sherlock asked her not to.

Now John comes to her, mourning the loss of his wife, with a message for Sherlock that will break his heart. She’s in the middle of a war, torn between loyalties to both sides. She can’t refuse John; he’s grieving, and just wants to be left alone. But Molly knows better than most how difficult the last few years have been for Sherlock, how much he has lost. Now Sherlock is losing his best friend too, and Molly must be the one to break the news.

He wants to apologise for all of this, but the impact of her words hit him like bullets. He’s trapped in those first few moments after impact; the calm and ignorance of shock. It feels like lying on the floor of the ocean in a storm, staring up at the turbulence above; a bubble of serenity. You’re safe; but only until you have to take the next breath.

“Yes. Thank you Molly.”

He barely registers her calling after him, concentrating only on the physical act of movement.

~

After everything, Sherlock finds himself back where he always is.

He thinks about Serbia, about two years on the run. About falling. About those four minutes at 30 thousand feet. About lying terrified on his bathroom floor all those years ago, convulsing from a miscalculated dose. And he feels the same.

Alone.

For a while there, he’d thought maybe things could be different.

**Author's Note:**

> The unrequited nature of John's feelings for Sherlock devastate him, and this story is about his loss of identity and feelings of abandonment from this. The relationship is never proven to be one-sided, and I like to think it isn't, hence the 'possibly unrequited' tag.  
> This turned out to be a little more harsh on John than I intended. Perhaps I will revisit this one day, I dislike sequels, but I'm not ruling it out, as I get asked this question a lot. For now, I'm leaving it open, thank you so much for reading x


End file.
